


Bleach

by SonnyGietzel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Violent Flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-20 19:35:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/891038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonnyGietzel/pseuds/SonnyGietzel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the smell that catches his interest, first. Stiles always smells just a little bit like bleach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

There’s something slightly…off about Stiles.

Peter can’t believe no one has caught on yet – except he really can, because Stiles is _good_.

He never leaves tracks, and he never leaves trails. He’s always goofy and smiling and clumsy and silly, surrounded by Scott and Allison, pining for Lydia and always, always so clean.

It’s the smell that catches his interest, first. Stiles always smells just a little bit like bleach.

It’s not a big deal, really; plenty of adolescent boys smell like bleach, what with nightly dreams and day-time replays, it might actually be considered weird for him _not_ to smell like it at least somewhat.

The problem comes with the fact that Stiles always smells like a-few-days-old bleach, faded enough that other humans can’t detect the smell even with their noses pressed up to the cloth, faded enough that even Scott with his new werewolf senses never seems to notice.

He _always_ smells like that.

Peter has no problem with accepting the fact that he would not have noticed either, except for the fact that bleach is a smell he knows exceptionally well. Bleach had been a constant companion to him first at the hospital and then during his murder spree, when he’d been in control just enough to know that sudden, inexplicable blood spatters appearing on his clothes while in a coma would not help his cover. Bleach was, after all, very good at removing the smell and stain of blood.

The ever-present scent wouldn’t have caught his attention for long, even if it was suspiciously eternally faded, if Stiles’ oddities had stopped there. But there were other things.

For one, Stiles has aggressive reflexes. When attacked, most people instinctively react to flee or defend, unless they have been trained otherwise. And Stiles, for all that he had clearly learned to mask his violent reactions to being surprised, cannot hide from a werewolf. He is good enough for normal humans, and even newly turned wolves like the rest of the Pack, but not for Peter. Not for Derek, either, but Derek hasn’t been looking for them – for his slips – and so he doesn’t see.

But Peter has – and so he sees the split second when Scott jumps on Stiles and the he freezes for a moment, his arms pulling in and his body curling onto itself, like he’s about to throw the other boy off and –

Peter has no idea what Stiles would do when he had Scott on the ground, because the next moment Stiles stumbles, clumsy again, letting out a surprised yelp only an imperceptible instant too late, and Scott is grinning and has no idea that he was a moment away from being murdered.

Because Peter knows that look in Stiles’ eyes – it is not friendly and it is not playful. It is a look Peter has seen many times when he and his family had had to fight other werewolves who had been intent on encroaching on their territory, intent on killing them all unless they were killed first; cold, empty, methodical. It is not the look of a warrior who likes to fight, nor of a murderer who enjoys his kills.

It is the look of a soldier, someone who was placed at the front-lines against his will and is only still fighting because he has something to protect, something to go back to, even if that something is already long gone and only the memory remains. It is the look of one who is automatically cataloging the enemy’s weak-points; where their necks, knees and eyes are, and which one will break faster if hit with enough force. It is the look of ingrained, undeniable, vicious routine.

Peter has never seen Stiles fight; as the frail human, he is always kept away during battles, never allowed too close because he can’t defend himself and would be a liability if someone else had to defend him.

But oh, Peter wants to.

 

* * *

 

It is nearly midnight when Peter comes across Stiles, alone in the woods. The boy is sitting at the base of a tree at the edge of a large clearing, his gaze fixed upon the stars above. Peter watches him from the sidelines, hidden in the cover of the dark trees.

After a few minutes, Stiles turns towards him. Peter grins at the look in the boy’s eyes; amused, somewhat angry, perhaps frustrated that he has been found out.

“Come on out, Creeper-wolf,” he says, his voice nearly a whisper; he’s not even trying to hide, now. His face is unreadable, but Peter has been watching him for a while now. He might just get his wish.

He ambles out of the trees, comes to stand in front of Stiles; he towers over the boy like this, when usually he is only a few inches taller. Stiles looks somewhat uncomfortable at his position, but does not move to stand. Peter’s grin widens.

He wants Stiles to feel threatened. Not enough for the boy to actually act out in true self-defense – he knows perfectly well Stiles always carries a few wolfs-bane infused needles, and feels no need to be stabbed quite this early in the game – but enough that his shields are up.

Indeed, he is already curling his legs underneath him, his hands settling more comfortably against the ground and tree to push himself up at a moment’s notice. Peter can see his eyes shifting around his body, pausing almost undetectably on his throat, his hands, his feet. His pulse quickens. His smell becomes musty with adrenaline, but Peter notes it lacks the acrid taste of fear.

“See something you like?” he says, smirking, his voice teasing and dark. He watches with interest as Stiles’ focus breaks and the boy’s face twitches oddly, like he’s catching himself from scowling.

“No, not really,” he snaps back, just a moment too late. Then he _does_ push back on the tree and stands up, brushing himself off. He meets Peter’s eyes with a glare, his expression open and annoyed, and Peter has to control the urge to reach out and curl a hand around the back of Stiles’ neck. To reach over and _bite down_.

To claim.

Instead, he takes a step back, allowing the space Stiles has so clearly demanded. Stiles looks surprised at his acquiescence, but there is an undercurrent of suspicion. Peter would have been honestly disappointed if there hadn’t been.

They stand there in silence for a few minutes. Stiles is very still; ordinarily this would be preoccupying, as the boy was always in constant movement, twitching or talking or meandering about, incapable of controlling the relentless energy that flowed through him.

A breeze sweeps through the clearing, bringing to Peter the smells from deeper inside the woods; clean, cold and dark. He knows his eyes are flashing sapphire under the light of the moon, nearly three quarters full. He wonders what Stiles sees when he looks at him; his pulse, his joints, his arteries? His hair, his clothes, his grin?

Stiles lets out a slow breath.

“What are you doing here,” he says. It doesn’t sound like a question; more of a complaint, perhaps. Peter decides to answer anyway.

“Looking for you,” he says. It is not strictly the truth, as he always goes out during the nights and he was not expecting to find Stiles here; but in a sense he is always looking for Stiles, for the boy who he only can see glances of during the day, the one that Peter wants to take down, to see if his body can back up what his eyes proclaim.

_I can break you._

Stiles’ face once again makes that strange almost-scowl, and the boy huffs. “Of course,” he says flatly, “I meant, what do you want?”

Peter doesn’t know if Stiles believed him, but he appreciates how the boy can accept his words so easily; for all practical purposes, Peter was the one who started this confrontation, and so Stiles is content with allowing him the next move.

It has been so long since Peter played against a good opponent. Laura had been entertaining, but in the end, had been incapable of doing as was necessary.

“How long ago was the last one?” he says. He doesn’t _know_ , but he’s pretty sure of his guess. He knows Stiles’ type.

Stiles’ only reaction to his declaration is a tensing of his hands, as if he wants to reach for something. Peter can taste the _want_ in the back of his throat.

When it becomes clear Stiles is not going to answer, Peter takes a step forward, once again bringing him well into Stiles’ personal space. The boy’s features _do_ shift at that, flashing with alarm; he makes to sidestep, a subtle shifting in his bodyweight that Peter can admire but not allow, as he grabs the boy’s arms and pins them to the tree at his back.

Against his grip, Stiles is deceptively relaxed, but Peter knows it only means he can move quickly to exploit any lowering of his defenses. He pushes his leg forward, pinning Stiles’ left foot behind his body’s center of mass and pulls Stiles’ arms sideways to shift his balance unequally; the boy cannot kick and cannot move too far, and from the way Stiles’ eyes narrow, he is very aware of his situation.

“How long?” he hisses into the boy’s neck. His fangs are prickling against his gums, and he knows his eyes are a solid, glowing sapphire. Stiles’ muscles shift under his grip, testing his strength. Peter’s lips curl into a cruel grin.

“Why do you want to know?” Stiles says after a moment, his tone flat and seemingly disinterested, but Peter can hear the boy’s racing heart. He stinks of adrenaline.

But not fear.

“Call it an interest in my investments,” he replies, voice soft and teasing, his lips inches away from the boy’s throat.

Stiles swallows, his throat clicking. “Investments,” he repeats, sounding somewhat annoyed by the word. Peter can see his expression clearly from this close up, can see the way his pupils contract and his jaw tightens. The boy’s eyes aren’t brown, he suddenly realized.

“I won’t repeat myself,” he says, pressing Stiles harder against the tree, enough that he knows it has to hurt, but the boy doesn’t flinch.

“That’s nice of you, I didn’t want to hear you again either,” Stiles replies, a hint of his usual snappy humor in his voice, and Peter bears his fangs. They are, by now, fully out.

Stiles jerks back at the motion, his eyes widening and his heart hammering in his chest.

He does not smell of fear.

Peter snarls at the boy, his grip tightening on his wrist so that he can feel the bones grind against each other, and he knows he could so easily break his wrists, his arms, his _neck_.

Stiles does flinch then, a slight hunching of his shoulders that momentarily assuages Peter’s violent tendencies, and he loosens his grip just enough that blood can once again flow to the boy’s hands. He draws his fangs back in and smiles somewhat apologetically, although his eyes lose nothing of their inherent viciousness.

Stiles looks at him somewhat more clearly now, apparently just realizing he is treading on thin ice with the werewolf. He opens his mouth, closes it; takes a deep breath.

“Last week.”

Peter’s grin widens. “How many?”

“Three.”

His grip on Stiles’ wrists drops. The boy is obeying him and deserves the respite. He doubts Stiles will try to run, and doesn’t really even care if he does; he can catch him.

Stiles is observing him with hard eyes, and for a moment Peter wonders if Stiles resents him for forcing this out.

The answer comes a moment later as a knife is buried into his lungs, faster than he can block, and he chokes out a mouthful of blood. Pain suddenly explodes in his knees and he falls to the ground, barely capable of breathing or moving, and he watches as Stiles sprints away through the forest.

The knife is coated with a mild version of wolfs-bane; he can feel it in his veins, painful and paralyzing, but not deadly. He will not be able to recover from his dislocated knee-cap for a few hours, and it will hurt to breathe for a few days, but he will not die.

Not again.

The forest is silent around him as he begins to laugh, loudly, long peals that scare away any other animals in the area and resonate through the dark trees. Blood bubbles up through his mouth, pooling down his neck and staining his clothes; his throat and chest are on fire, agony racing through him at the exertion but he _can’t stop_.

The boy never smells of fear.

Only a fading trace of bleach.


	2. Chapter 2

The thing is, Stiles is lonely.

Not _alone_. He has Scott and Allison, who, despite being joined at the hip, always make an effort to include him in their movie nights and outings. He has Lydia, who, despite his ridiculous flirting, has accepted him as smart enough to study on supernatural lore with. He has Erica, who, although no longer crushing on him, enjoys trading barbed quips with him in the halls of their school. He has Boyd and Isaac, who are both quiet and yet allow him to fill the silence to a certain degree. He even has Derek, who has made it clear that Stiles is pack in all ways that count. He doesn’t quite have Jackson, but he doesn’t quite  _not_ have him, either.

But being alone and being lonely are not the same thing, and Peter knows the dawning feeling of desperation in Stiles’ eyes, can almost taste the boy’s growing resentment with the rest of the pack for accepting his jokes and laughter when, on a nearly daily basis, he comes so close to breaking one of their necks.

Loneliness is, Peter knows, a powerful motivator.

It takes 3 months for Stiles to bend, which is two longer than Peter would have liked but one shorter than he expected. He is sitting on the only couch in the Hale house, reading a book on Harpies; Derek is out, doing whatever it is he does whenever he is not haunting his broken down quarters.

Peter doesn’t really care. His nephew is not a threat to him, not really, and so far Derek has been cautious in his approach towards Peter and somewhat hesitant towards the pack. It creates tension within them, but Peter accepts that Derek knows no better. He was never meant to be an alpha, after all.

He doesn’t turn when the door opens, when a presence approaches him on the coach and settles in the side opposite him. After a few moments of silent motionlessness, he finally looks up.

Stiles is sitting on the couch, leaning forwards onto his knees, staring straight ahead. He is very, very still.

Peter goes back to his book.

They remain like this for around an hour, no words exchanged. Then, Stiles stands up and leaves as quietly as he came, closing the front door softly behind him.

Ten minutes later, Peter hears the familiar roar of the Camaro as it parks in front of the house. Derek enters the room, only acknowledging Peter with a slight nod of his head before moving upstairs.

Peter’s lips curl in a smirk.

 

* * *

 

Peter is in the kitchen, five days later, chopping up vegetables for his and Derek’s lunch; it is not as unusual an occurrence as Peter knows the other members of the pack would think it to be. He is not blind to their speculations, to their suspicious and resentments, never has been and never will be. He cannot turn his mind away from the intricacies of his _pack_ , no matter how much he may sometimes wish to because they are all teenagers, and he envies Derek sometimes, his ability to disconnect so fully and delve into his inner turmoil. Just disconnect.

Envies, but does not wish. Moping never did any good to anyone, is his opinion, and it is more useful to be better than to be sorry.

 A small shifting in the air around him, and he looks up to see Stiles watching him silently from the kitchen’s threshold, eyes observant and somewhat less apprehensive than he thinks they were before. Peter moves sideways, leaving the knife and chopping board to begin slicing the piece of meat he’s laid out to thaw; a peace offering if there ever was one, in the shape of cold steel and tomato slices. Stiles hesitates for only a moment before coming up beside Peter, taking up the chopping of the vegetables.

It feels almost domestic, in a way, and Peter doesn’t mind, revels in the silent placidity of their repetitive, boring motions and they rip and shred their meal, so reminiscent of ancient bonding rituals and yet so much _less_. They don’t talk, but they shift their movements around each other, careful not to touch, not to make a sound – wary, oh so wary Peter doesn’t know if to break it would require laughter or slaughter – and he could not wish otherwise.

They eat in silence when the meal is done, seated at the half-rebuilt dinner table in front of each other, their mouths full and their eyes watchful and alert. The meal tastes good, the meat red and tender to prove its careful cut, against the grain and muscle fibers, and Peter wonders, once again, what Stiles sees when he looks at him. His pale gray shirt. His carefully not-combed hair. His jugular veins.

When they are done, nearly simultaneously, Peter retreats to the kitchen with their dishes. He washes and puts them away, storing the remains of their meal for when Derek arrives, and then moves to the couch with a book on Hydras. Stiles is gone.

Derek comes back a while later, and when he tastes the food his brows furrow. Peter watches his nephew covertly, wondering if he will say anything to the odd scent intermingling with Peter’s in the food. Eventually, Derek goes back to eating, but Peter can feel his suspicious gaze on the back of his neck as he turns another page on his book.

 

* * *

 

Peter likes to run. He goes out nearly every morning for a long, winding jog through the forest. This is as much for his benefit as it is for the sake of maintaining the perimeter of the pack’s territory, certainly, but Peter doesn’t trust Derek to do it properly. Ideally, it should be the pack’s alpha to scope out their boundaries, but Derek is not an alpha, not really, and so Peter takes it upon himself to maintain a semblance of security. It is also the wolf inside him which yearns to run even when the full moon is long gone and away and which Peter would not think to deny such a small thing when so much else is, already.

He isn’t sure if Derek knows why he leaves every morning, but he does know that the other will never follow him out.

Not like the little shadow he seems to have attracted now.

It has been six days since he last saw Stiles, and he doesn’t turn to greet the boy even as he can hear the pitter-patter of his feet and heart, racing behind and to the side, following even as he tracks the path they run on, carefully noting their surroundings and location. Peter has no doubts that Stiles at all times is fully aware of where in the forest they are in relation to the town, to the nearest river, to the way-side precipice in which they fought a pixie colony not two months ago. They boy’s scent is sharp, sweat running down his skin despite the cold morning air, and Peter breaths in deeply.

Peter never deviates from his usual trail, even thought he might at other times choose to venture further out, if only to scope further, scent the trails, observe, rest. But with Stiles on his heels he only maintains a steady pace as they run over trees and roots and rocks. Stiles follows behind him, steady and strong, even after almost an hour of jogging. He is certainly no match for Peter’s wolf endurance, but his heart is strong even as they come near the end of the trail, his breath even and his blood fluid.

He is clearly used to the exercise, and Peter wants to run further. Push him, just a bit.

Instead, he turns left at where the Hale house is and listens as Stiles’ footsteps fade into the background behind him, lost to the foliage and the scent of the trees and early morning dew, and he knows that after he takes a shower and eats breakfast Derek will think nothing is different. And he allows himself to feel pleasure.

 

* * *

 

Days become weeks – weeks, months – and, as the visits continue, Peter notes with satisfaction that Stiles is relaxing. He no longer sits tense and unmoving when Peter reads on the couch, preferring instead to bring his own book and lean back. When they cook in the kitchen, he is no longer careful to keep a safe distance from Peter at all times, and their shoulders brush intermittently, accidentally, as they prepare their food. When they run in the woods, he follows after Peter without hesitation, his heart pitter-patter as his feet and his breath even.

It would, of course, be a mistake to say that Stiles is no longer paying attention, that he is becoming lax. Peter has never caught him yet with his guard down, and Stiles has never yet made a mistake that he has caught. But Stiles’ eyes no longer focus near constantly on his neck, his hands, his joints. He no longer watches Peter like he’s preparing to stab him again.

Loneliness is a powerful motivator, and Peter knows – knows, feels, _tastes_ – that Stiles is beginning to trust him.

 

* * *

 

It takes seventeen weeks and twenty-three visits from Stiles for Derek to finally react.

Peter is sitting at the kitchen table, eating spaghetti which he and Stiles and have cooked only a few minutes earlier before the boy had hurried off suddenly, when Derek stalks into the kitchen and sits in front of Peter. This development is rare enough that he immediately looks up to his nephew, who is watching him with suspicious, angry eyes.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, but Peter has always been more patient, and eventually Derek growls in annoyance. Peter shoots him an amused glance as he takes in another mouthful of pasta.

“What are you doing?” Derek snarls.

“Eating,” Peter responds lazily. Derek frowns further, starting to look genuinely angry.

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific, then.” He wonders how much Derek suspects; Stiles is careful about leaving his scent on his visits, but even he cannot fully mask the light odor left behind in the food they prepare, on the couch he sits on for hours. He visits enough for pack meetings that it isn’t too strange to smell him around the house, however, and so Peter is curious as to what tipped Derek off.

Derek takes in a breath, and his jaw clenches.

“You smell…different.”

Peter ‘s mouth curls into a grin even as his heart skips. “Ah, I see you noticed! I changed my soap brand a few…”

“Peter,” Derek growls threteningly, interrupting him.

Peter watches him with unabashed amusement, hoping Derek is aware that, even as his technical alpha, Peter will never be intimidated by him. He thinks this might be the first time he’s ever wished to know what his scent is like.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

Derek’s eyes flash crimson for a moment, his fangs lengthening as he snarls viciously, and for a small, unbelievable moment Peter thinks he might actually _shift_.

“ _Why do you smell of Stiles_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone!  
> I am so sorry about the delay but, as you can see, I have decided to continue the little story! I hope you like where I'm going with it; there'll be more action soon though!  
> Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I really, really appreciate all your comments and corrections. I try, but sometimes things get by me, so thank you for helping me make this story better. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!
> 
> If you guys like this, I was thinking about continuing it...or it could just stay as a one-shot. What do you guys think?  
> Longer would involve one-sided Derek/Stiles, mysterious Mom Stilinski... probably a lot of violent flirting. 
> 
> And, of course, Peter and Stiles.
> 
> Anyway, tell me what you guys think! Any comments, suggestions and opinions are always welcome!  
> Thank you for reading. :)


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